Page 22 of Twin Crowns

“I won’t have my personal business offered up as palace fodder. Is that understood, Chapman?”

“Yes, sir. Ofcourse, sir,” came Chapman’s reedy voice. “As ever, you can count on me for the utmost discretion.”

Wren could just make out Rathborne’s shadowy figure up ahead. He was tall and thin as a quill, and he moved with unnerving grace. Firelight flickered along his pallid skin, turned the graying strands of his hair amber. Chapman scurried alongside him, like a palace rat. They were surrounded by guards, one at each side and two at the rear.

“You four are to wait here until I return, and if I catch word of anyone drifting off, I will hang you from the Protector’s Vault by your bootstraps.” Rathborne promptly removed a key from a piece of twine around his neck and slotted it into the door to the tower. He paused to look over his shoulder. “Chapman, patrol the halls for anything untoward. If you feel even a modicum of suspicion, raise the alarm.”

Chapman tucked his scroll under his arm and gave a rousing salute. “Rest assured. Not even the tiniest moth will get past me.” He sniffed left and right, and then promptly took off on his patrol.

The door to the west tower groaned as it opened. Rathborne swept inside alone, letting it close behind him with a resounding thud. The guards arranged themselves on either side of the door, backs stiff and gazes alert.

Wren lingered awhile in the shadows, but it soon became clear that Rathborne wasn’t coming back out. She took off the way she’d come, trying to figure out what she had just witnessed. When she returned to the east tower, Chapman’s voice was echoing through the stairwell. The little weasel was interrogating the guards outside her room, and while Wren doubted he would go so far as to enter her bedchamber to check on her, she couldn’t very well arrive back in the middle of their conversation. It was bad enough that the guards were still half asleep from her spell.

She quickly descended the stairwell, tiptoeing down into the bowels of the tower, where she waited for Chapman to leave. In the darkness, Wren’s anxiety began to fester. She pressed her fists against her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. Rathborne was skulking around the palace as if he was up to something, and though she had no clue what it was, she had a bad feeling about it. Between the Kingsbreath’s evasiveness and Rose’s surprise Gevran fiancé, everything had suddenly become much more complicated.

The sooner Wren came face-to-face with the Kingsbreath, the sooner she could figure out what on earth was going on. She hadn’t come this far to be foiled by someone else’s plotting. She wasn’t going to let anything—or anyone—get in the way of her coronation.

A faint breeze tickled Wren’s cheeks, rousing her from her panic. It was coming from under the door at the bottom of the stairs. It yielded with a sharp push, and Wren found herself in a disused cellar, full of dusty casks and old furniture. She followed the breeze into the darkness, until she came upon a broom cupboard. Her fingers tingled as she opened it, something deep and primal stirring in her bones. The air in here was laced with old magic, and it was calling out to her.

She stepped inside and let the door close behind her until she could see nothing but a pair of white symbols etched into the wall. They shone out into the blackness, like two tiny stars.

Witch markings.

She traced her finger over them, and the wall released a low, keening groan. The stones cleaved apart to reveal a narrow opening. Warm air tickled Wren’s cheeks as she stepped through the doorway. The passageway was cold and damp, the darkness feathered by purple flamesthat flickered from hollows in the walls.

“Everlights,” whispered Wren. They were cast by tempests, designed to burn until they were blown out—however long that might take. Every winter, during the Festival of Flame, Banba would ignite huge silver bonfires along the rocky shores of Ortha. They would blaze for seven days and nights, until it looked as if the sea had swallowed the sky and all the stars were burning from within.

Wren’s steps quickened as she followed the purple lights. Thea had told her about the network of tunnels that once existed beneath Anadawn Palace, but Wren believed—as they all did—that the old passageways had been sealed up by Rathborne when he rose to power eighteen years ago.

Wren’s laughter echoed all the way down the tunnel. The arrogant fool had missed one! But of course, it would never have shown itself to him. Not with the witch markings guarding the entryway, those two simple symbols stronger than any lock in all of Eana.

Wren wound her way deep into the underbelly of Anadawn until the tangy scent of river water reached her on the breeze. She started to run then, and she didn’t stop until she got to the end of the tunnel, where the night sky twinkled through the grille of an old storm drain. The wind tickled her face as she shoved the grille aside and hauled herself up onto the riverbank. Mud stained her nightgown as she crawled through the slimy reeds, until finally, she was standing alone on the banks of the Silvertongue.

Wren’s laughter soared on the river wind. No matter what obstacles Anadawn threw at her, the witches still protected her. Tonight, they had shown her that. A nearby rustling startled her from her triumph.She whipped her head around just in time to see a familiar white blur bounding through the reeds toward her.

“Elske, NO!” she shouted, but the wolf leaped at Wren like an excited puppy, the full force of her weight toppling them both. Wren giggled and squirmed as the wolf licked her face. It took an age, but she finally managed to push her off. She was still laughing when she scrabbled to her feet and found herself face-to-face with Elske’s master.

Oh, rotting carp.

Captain Tor Iversen regarded Wren as if she were a wraith dredged up from the river. “Princess Rose? Is thatyou?”

Wren used her sleeve to casually wipe the drool from her face. “Good evening, soldier,” she said mildly. “Pleasant weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Tor blinked in confusion. “What brings you down here at such a late hour, Your Highness?”

Wren felt a strange tightening in her stomach. “Is it late? I hadn’t noticed.” She was all too aware of the blush rising in her cheeks. “I was just getting a spot of exercise.” She swung her arms for added effect.

Tor’s brows lifted as he swept his gaze over her nightgown. It was thoroughly damp and covered in mud. “Is this what an Anadawn princess wears to exercise?”

“Oh, I know I’mhopelesslymucky.” Wren laughed airily, refusing to acknowledge the fact that she was quite clearly dressed for bed. She was thankful at least that her nightgown covered her slippers. “But I prefer to run in the reeds. It’s so much better for the knees.” She gestured vaguely at his muscled arms. “I don’t need to tell you that, soldier. You’re certainly no stranger to exercise.”

“I’m not familiar with this kind,” said Tor.

“Well, we like to do things differently in Eana.”

“Evidently.”

“Though perhaps it would be best to keep this just between us,” said Wren as though the thought had only just occurred to her. “I would hate for Prince Ansel to ever think of me in such a state of... disarray.”

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